


More or Less the Same

by Jefferson



Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: M/M, One Shot, The Concert in Central Park, back stage love, english major writes a fic, yeet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 07:22:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10657683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jefferson/pseuds/Jefferson
Summary: Paul and Art get frisky backstage after Central Park '81.





	More or Less the Same

“I forgot the new pause after the first line in Boxer again.”

Art was wistful already. The concert ended just ten minutes ago, and he sat reminiscing back stage like a year had passed.

“I thought it was cute.”

Paul leaned on the doorframe. His fingers were busy fidgeting with the sleeves of his jacket, unable to decide between leaving them rolled up and letting the cuffs down. He still rode the adrenaline high from performing that flushed his cheeks and kept him from sitting. He grinned at nothing in particular.

Art lounged on the small dressing room couch. He kept his eyes on Paul’s, but Paul stared at the buttons on his sleeve.

“I know you looked at me as soon as I did it. I would have laughed if I’d looked back.”

 “I know, Artie. I couldn’t help myself.”

 They had an agreement. They’d made it years ago: no making eye contact with each other during a performance. They’d quickly learned not to, back in the Tom and Jerry days. The thrill of singing together mixed with a recognition that only best friends can pass along through a simply gaze always ended in a burst of laughter between the two men. Even in practice, with no audience present to fall back on, the duo looked forward. Art knew he could never keep a straight face when his eyes met Paul’s; Paul knew he could never hide the affection he felt for Art if he shot him so much as a glance.

 Art smiled to himself, and took his gaze from Paul’s actions. He rested his head on the back of the couch. The lights hummed overhead, and made Art too aware of how quiet the little room was; the sound of the crowd still awed his memory. He closed his eyes, and let his mind drift back to the stage.

 “You put your hand on my back during that song, too.”

 Paul finished with his sleeves, leaving them rolled up after doing and undoing the cuff button a few times. He relaxed his shoulders, then looked finally to Art.

 “I wanted to make sure you were still there with me.”

 Paul was glad Art’s eyes were closed. He didn’t want Art to see him beaming like he was. He held his breath for a moment, caught off guard by Art’s shameless honesty. Art was never anything but honest, but it still shocked a smile out of Paul every time Art said something so endearing.

 “Of course I was there, you big goof. Who did you think you were harmonizing with?”

 Paul was still smiling when Art opened his eyes to look at him. Art smiled back.

 “It’s not so silly, Paul. I like to reassure myself that I’m not dreaming, even after all this time. Your solidity reminds me that it’s real.”

 Paul’s smile widened, and Art let his eyes fall closed again. Paul walked over to the couch and sat next to Art. Art’s legs went on for miles, and Paul was suddenly aware of how small he was. Paul liked to think that he took up more space than he did, but that was hard with Art’s height on the same couch. Paul still fit next to him no problem.

 “You are silly, and I’m right here.”

 Art raised an eyebrow, but kept his eyes closed.

 “Oh really?”

 Paul laughed.

 “Yeah, really!” Paul didn’t want to confess the truth, that every time Art placed a hand on his back in concert, Paul forgot what verse they were on. He was lucky that, this time, it was in the middle of a wordless chorus. For once he was grateful that he hadn’t come up with lyrics for that part when he wrote it. Art’s touch made him warm.

 “Well I don’t care if you think I’m silly. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

 Paul turned his head to look at Art. Art’s head was back, eyes shut, with the smallest smirk tugging the corner of his mouth. Paul liked that mouth. He liked the man it belonged to, too.

 “Good,” Paul said.

 Without looking, Art moved his hand to Paul’s forearm, trailing a line down his wrist and into his palm. Art clasped his hand around Paul’s, lacing his much longer fingers into Paul’s smaller ones. His smirk relaxed into something more content.

Paul looked at their joined hands. For a moment, he felt surprised. Then, he realized that this was so very typical of Art. The man did exactly what he wanted to do, and he always had. Paul moved their hands from the liminal space on the couch between them onto his thigh. Art moved their hands further, and settled into the cradle of Paul’s lap.

 Paul looked down again. Art’s thumb began to trace a path across his own. It made his whole arm tingle, and he gave Art’s hand a small squeeze of encouragement. Maybe this was what Art meant; Paul almost thought this might be a dream, too, until Art’s hand squeezed back. Solidity was reassuring. Paul let his head fall back on the couch, too, and closed his eyes.

 Art felt thrilled. This was what heaven must feel like, he thought. They’d just performed together for half a million people in the city they loved, and now here they sat, holding hands and smiling to themselves in the solitude of each others’ company.

 Paul shifted his legs on the couch; Art could feel Paul’s groin beneath his wrist where it wrested. Art turned his head slowly to the side, then opened one eye to look at Paul.

 Paul’s head was tilted back. The sharp line of his jaw led to a length of neck that Art had tried not to admire during the show. Paul’s lips were parted, and he had a small knit in his brow. Art wondered if he was asleep, then drew his fingers slowly out of Paul’s.

 Art’s fingers brushed the seam of Paul’s jeans as they moved. Paul took in a quick breath. Art looked at Paul with both eyes, now, but Paul stayed still.

 Paul wondered if that had been an accident. It must have been, he thought. Art wouldn’t have done that on purpose, not unless he had wanted to. Still, Paul forgot to let the air out of his lungs at the contact. If Art had done that on stage, he definitely would have felt solidity, Paul thought.

 Art felt emboldened by Paul’s reaction. His smirk returned as he brushed his fingers across the zip of Paul’s jeans once more. Paul let the breath he had been holding rush out of his lungs. He kept his eyes closed. Art did it again, a little slower this time. Paul inhaled just as slowly, trying to calm the thrill that threatened to give him away.

 Art leaned in closer, fascinated by this display. Paul could feel Art’s breath cooling his neck, and it gave him goose bumps. He let the tensing muscles in his shoulders relax, and let his hands fall open on his thighs.

 Art put his palm on Paul’s groin. He didn’t give Paul time to register the touch before placing his lips on Paul’s neck. He kissed the pale plain of warm skin once, then pulled back, and kissed again. He kept his hand still in Paul’s lap; it was warm, and Paul was hard.

 Art kissed a path patiently up to Paul’s ear. He licked just behind it, then kissed there, too. Paul’s lips parted further.

 “Artie...” Paul breathed out his name. That was all of the encouragement he needed.

Art moved his free hand up behind Paul’s head. He ran his fingers though Paul’s hair, making a fist in it as he sucked Paul’s neck. He put pressure on Paul’s groin. Paul let a sound between a whine and a moan escape his lips. Art had never heard him make that sound before, and he wanted to hear it again.

 Art pawed the front of Paul’s jeans, stroking up and down to draw out that sound a second time. He licked to the hollow of Paul’s throat, pulled the neck of his pink T aside, and bit at the collarbone he revealed.

 Paul moaned again. He rested his hand on top of Artie’s where it treated his lap, turned his head to the side, and opened his eyes.

 Art leaned back slightly. He took in Paul’s desperate expression: his jaw hung slack, his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, and his eyes were pleading. He looked like an invitation that Art was not eager to pass up.

 Paul stared at his friend. He petted Art’s hand with his own, and ached for the contact to continue.

 Next time I touch his back on stage, Art thought, he’ll forget the whole set list.

Art didn’t break eye contact as he undid the button on Paul’s jeans. He didn’t break eye contact as he pulled down the zipper. He leaned in when he slid aside Paul’s briefs. He kissed him when he touched his cock.

 Paul gasped Art’s name into his mouth, then kissed back with full force. Art’s lips were soft and full, and teased his own when they had no right to. Paul licked into his partner’s mouth. He reached up to hold the nape of Art’s neck so he wouldn’t pull away, though he didn’t seem inclined to. Paul pulled Art’s bottom lip into his mouth and sucked, while Art wrapped his fingers around Paul’s erection. Both men sighed a moan at the same time.

 Art moved his hand up and down, pulling and tightening his grip. Paul’s head fell back against the couch, and Art was in awe. His thumb rubbed over the tip, and spread around the moisture it met there. Paul’s eyes shot to meet Art’s again.

 “Artie, I-“

 Art leaned over to kiss Paul again, slower this time. He moved his hand at a steady pace, all the while kissing at Paul’s mouth.

 Paul put his hand on Art’s bicep and gripped, hard. He clung to the arm of the couch with his other hand, his hips jerking into Art’s fist. Art pulled back from Paul’s lips to look him in the eye.

 “Come for me, Paul.” And he did.

Paul’s eyes fluttered, and he cried out Art’s name as he finished. This was better than the concert, he thought, though his mind was a blur. His body fell slack as he leaned into Art’s chest, gasping for air. Art wrapped his arms around him, and Paul buried his nose in the junction of Art’s neck. Art smelled like fresh air and old books.

 “Where did _that_ come from?”

 Paul caught his breath enough to ask the question.

 “The search for solidity, I suppose.”

 Art didn’t feel dishonest, though he had more truth to tell. Paul knew there was more, too, but decided not to push it. Instead, he put his hand to Art’s chest and began undoing the buttons on the white shirt there. He took his time revealing the lean muscle beneath, then pulled the shirt tails free from their home tucked in Art’s jeans. Paul splayed his fingers out flat on Art’s stomach, then let his fingers glide through the soft hair up to Art’s chest.

 Art hummed and smiled. He always knew how sweet Paul could be, if only he’d let himself show it. Paul was gentle and soft and loving when he had the wherewithal to let anyone see it. Art admired the skill of Paul’s fingers as they danced back down Art’s abdomen to the button of his jeans. Paul seemed to hesitate, even after what they’d just done together, but Art offered him kind eyes, and moved his hand to undo the button himself. Paul smiled up at Art, then moved to place a kiss on Art’s chest. Art kept his arm wrapped around Paul, his hand holding Paul’s hip. His grip hardened when Paul undid his zipper and pulled his cock out of his jeans.

 Art groaned. Paul kissed and bit down Art’s stomach from his spot on the couch, emboldened enough by Art’s quick gasps to put the head of Art’s cock in his mouth without hesitating when he reached it. Art groaned again, louder this time, and Paul pulled back.

 “Shh, Artie, you have to be quiet,” Paul giggled before resuming the work of his mouth.

 He moved up and down on Art’s erection, keeping his lips wet and his tongue moving. Art covered his mouth with his hand to keep from crying out at the pleasure, then let his other hand stroke the hair at Paul’s neck.

 Art whimpered and gasped at Paul’s skill. There’s nothing he can’t do, Art thought, besides play the xylophone.

 Paul could feel Art tense the hand that stroked his hair.

 “Paul, I’m going to-“ but Paul didn’t stop. His head bobbed up and down in Art’s lap until Art couldn’t hold off any more, and Art came with wide eyes and a strangled sound escaping his lips.

 Paul sat back up slowly, grinning to himself when he saw how deliciously disheveled Art was. Art gasped for air and Paul leaned up to kiss his forehead, pleased with himself. Then, Paul took off his jacket to cover Art up, and did up the button on his own jeans.

 “Where did _THAT_ come from?” Art laughed.

 “Oh shut up, Artie.”

 The two sat still next to each other on the couch once more, Art groping for Paul’s hand, and Paul weaving his fingers through Art’s once he found it. They knew that if they looked at each other, even now, they’d laugh.

So they did.


End file.
